Best Life Sized Poems
The snow slowly morphs into rain, a thousand cold cocoons that release raindrop butterflies into the frosty air. They glisten in the morning light, clinging to soft leather like tiny diamonds as he drapes his jacket across my shoulders.
The jacket smells like him: fresh soap and spicy aftershave--and that spearmint gum he always keeps on hand. It's way too big on me, but he zips it up anyway, pulling the hood over my head to shield me from the rain.
dripping icicles
bleed beads of liquid light--
fingers intertwine
He's soaked, but he doesn't seem to care as water slides down his rosy cheeks, dripping from his frozen nose. He brings my hand to his lips and whispers, "Happy New Year." Even his lips are cold, but I lend him my warmth.
As we stand there together in the soft tranquility of winter rain, I realize I'm happy. I want to stay here forever, in this life-sized snow globe of frigid weather and smooth, warm leather.
For Giorgio's "Leather Jacket" contest
It isn’t the big celebrations,
Enormous dinners or huge gifts.
Parties never rouse foundations,
Jamborees or festivals.
It isn’t the life-sized creations,
Who impress kings, rulers or monarchs.
It’s the little things, a gentle expression,
When hearts meet in the deserts,
When dreamers discover their profession,
When simple reaches into the heart,
Pulls out a feeling, an impression,
The beautiful that inspires the light.
It isn’t in the impressive,
When a life gets made –
It’s in the thoughts, so obsessive…
Which bring feelings we want to save!
‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust’
(No one is going to bust up MY insides,
sew my eyes and mouth shut,
drain my blood and pump me full of fluid
then seal me up in a concrete drawer)
Mama I was so young, so very young
So very young and so very curious
You were sitting in your favorite chair
I was sitting on the arm of your chair
”Mama what did they do to you in the hospital”
You parted your gown and I saw a flaming scar
Something was missing…
The lady with the bun on her head
came into the classroom with an apple
I was called out into the hall
The lady with the bun on her head
presented me with the apple
I said “Thank you for the apple”
She said, “You’re welcome son”
(Teacher had a grave look on her face,
shaking her head slightly and muttering)
The lady with the bun on her head said
“I need you to come with me son”
and escorted me outside
where our car was waiting;
grandma and grandpa in the front,
daddy in the back with my two brothers.
Daddy said with a wavering voice,
“Boys, your mother has gone to be with the Lord”
We rode home in silence…
They even had a dresser with a mirror
with plush carpet, end tables and lamps
in the room we were escorted to
They had you laid out in a bed
with the covers folded neatly down
but it was not really you…
Someone had made a copy of you
A life sized, porcelain doll image of you
Grandpa went over and reached down
“Look, she has her favorite earrings on
Doesn’t she look beautiful”
(Mama, I didn't think you looked beautiful at all)
I remember asking daddy, "Daddy, how come,
how come they gonna put mama in that drawer”
Mama I was so young, so very young
I was at the ideal age of six mama
Old enough to comprehend
but too young to understand
Old enough to hurt like hell
but too young to know why
I guess I miss you even now mama
Mama, I guess what I miss the most
is just growing up without you
and that you never said goodbye…
Oh mama...
don’t let them bust up my insides,
sew my eyes and mouth shut,
drain my blood and pump me full of fluid,
then seal me up in a concrete drawer
like they did you…
I sip compliance from a cardboard cup. Tight fine steel lines, hoist five lifelike life sized paper mache white swans. The birds seem to wing from sunlit atrium up and over an oak railing to the mezzanine. Dazzling beneath skylights, they depict ascent, flap, glide, brake and then descent towards wrought iron tables. They mimic our trek from mall entry up the escalator to feast at the food court. I sit alone at the railing, gliding swan overhead, and pretend to eye my phone. Today I secretly study humans. Food court stuffed with youthful staff, bargain hunters, transit transfers, mobility scooters, mothers, babies, bags, phones, the braggadocio of men meeting, gaunt faces of the needy. Bodies milling, streaming, yearning. The bubbling cocktail of pop rock, chit chat galore, languages, slanguages, giggles, and that one guy yelling. The carnal essence of commercial cookery. Unspoken competition for tables, at times nearly a blood sport. Each of us tiptoeing through our daily hopscotch. Only children wonder at the swans. Do mall swans search for lost wetlands, or do they strain to join us? Mythology has it that swans shift between human and avian form. The enchantment of Tchaikovsky’s swan, princess by night pirouettes into swan by day. In the wild, sudden bright white, raucous landing, huge bold birds calling, splashing power and grace. I wish we each burst into swan. But flight feathers do not anchor to my bones, nor contour feathers pierce my skin. I vow to visit the wild ones, and leave.
published in "Unbroken" 2025
There, There! Good Children!
I say to the furniture gracing my space,
semi-circling the weary gray eye
of the television, as if it were the center
of the world. It's tired, but YOU are
to rest upon. Support for the watchers
in my diminishing world: a Bentwood rocker,
(made of bent wood?) Circle upon
concentric circle positioned for prettiness
and posture. Each piece, here, are
rescues: "New to You, Purple Dove, Paws-
ability." Found treasure, saved from
destruction like the sad-eyed pups behind
cages in the animal shelter. Desperate
for someone's arms. Cushy couch,
you are the arms around us, your five
fat pillows, each one retrieved from the un-
wanted shelf to form and reform a family,
reclaiming their purpose to make a
connection. Reveling in the compassionate
company of an old piano bench, its lid
upholstered in black velvet, beneath which
sheets of music were stored, and beside
a scalloped-edge table shaped like a fragile
shell one might find on a beach. Saved
from a languish in a Paris flea market, it
lifts a lamp, its base a life-sized rabbit
like he who dined on flowers in my front-
porch garden when love was alive,
his shade a black-death mushroom, lined
inside in gold, showering sheltering light
just enough and not to much to make us
edgy, unlike the nightly less-than benign
news from the black, black box.
The biggest toy store in the world
Is closing up its doors.
No longer will we get to shop
In this, the king of stores.
With huge toy soldiers in the front,
It welcomed all who came.
The famous piano scene from “Big”
Just added to its fame.
A life-sized ape or elephant
Was there for you to buy.
It cost nine hundred bucks
But there was always a supply.
Yet you could also buy a toy
For several smackeroos.
From all the well-stocked shelves
There was so much on hand to choose.
Both tourists and New Yorkers
Liked to stroll its tempting aisles
And children wandered bug-eyed,
Faces bursting with their smiles.
But now the heyday’s over;
There’ll be no more F.A.O.,
Just another fine example
Of the way things seem to go.
(Mickey D's, Winter Haven FL)
Fanciest McD's you ever saw!
Life sized statues caught in motion,
Marilyn, her skirts flying, Elvis,
thrusting out his guitar in a musical
******, both Blues Brothers in
black suits, ties awry --a real
Juke Box playing, not Tommy Dorsey,
but disco: "YMCA," "I Will survive,"
shades of my 70's sabbatical
from marriage, reprieve from
serial commitment. Huge, black
workingman sits down with
his senior coffee, singing along
that he will survive, before
heaving himself out the door
to his real life. A man, his back
to me at the napkins dispenser,
wears a Christian t-shirt, which
reads" A Blood Donor Saved
My Life. The mop lady, mopping
under tables, stops to jive
to the music, and then, there's
me, waiting in line for an
Egg McMuff, standing galvanized
under circular nightclub
fixtures, illuminating the ceiling,
brighter than the early Mid-
Florida morning sun: glittering
electric bands overhead of
black/red/black/yellow/black.
Life repeats.
Awakened by cops, I am frightened and confused. My parents arrested, I was removed. From house to house, I am placed with mannequins who “love” in parentheses. “Mommy, when will you come?” Her face plastered everywhere, yet she is nowhere. I was so young, then one day I turn eighteen. Return to thick, robust roots.
Knock on my old door,
Greeted by stranger blankly,
“How can I help you?”
My caseworker forgot to put life skills in my suitcase. A life sized adult body with a child inside on stilts. That night was the first one sleeping on hard surfaces. Aged out, and graduated from child protective services to homeless and forgotten on somebody's lunch break. They eat a cardboard club sandwich.
Middle aged mother
Inquiring about her child
“Sorry Ma’am, that files closed”.
I wrote this poem as a haibun, trying to keep it emotionless and rather concrete, inserting haiku that I hope adds new dimension to the prose. I am trying to hit home without actually hitting anything! This is my first haibun.
I've never known a fixed address. I love the home we've made for three years in our rental house so I'm sad that it's now up for sale. Last night, I sat in the sunroom thinking of how much I'll miss the joy I feel while in that room.
two walls are all window, one an eastern exposure
the other walls, floor and ceiling are old red, knotty wood
the brick fireplace has a beautifully carved, simple mantel
approximately twenty houseplants on antique stools thrive
on the floor among the plants is a life-sized, carved, wooden swan
many mobiles of either angels or hearts hang from the ceiling
on the mantel sits my collection of antique weather vanes
there are five, mismatched chairs in a semicircle
two spindle leg tables sit among the five chairs
on one table is an imitation antique radio tuned to light rock
in a corner, on a stand we built, is an electric keyboard
on one wall in a case we built, there is a dartboard
and everywhere in the room are memories of good, fulfilling times spent
... CayCay
August 6, 2019
At sundown, my dreams begin
from the privacy of a wooden door comes freedom
Beyond every window is a mystery
Life's detective--with little hands
Daybreak, I shall start again
nurturing discovery
every swaying gill in the bayou will be poked, prodded, examined
Bayou;she knows I'm coming
I play for hours at her warm waters edge until those fish swim--away
Strange sounds soothe me; restless, listless, small
dance away--dance away, shake and rattle bone
Shiny things too big for me to hold
I hear them every day,trusting my ears to listen
Pattern lullaby
At the height of it all
taller than my world around
branches of the thickest sort collect me
Holding precious identity safe, amid the one who seeks it most
I must get there
Higher up I scale more foliage, thorns and fruit alike
Alas, I have reached the top
Home is what I see
Street with fainted yellow line
enclosed by silver snaps of gate
rumbling life-sized motor toys
Lay--stranded by human hands
I know I'm close
I turn to hear a voice at my elbows
sweet satin words surround me--subtle, pink, with a dash of clear compassion
My friend bids me farewell
and fades
She helped me find...Home...Here.
The idea of Christmas snow in Michigan is replaced with fog
Hot breath exhaled to cold lollipop trees
My blurry life-sized polar bear salutes through the front window
To me
Staring back from the couch
He is sweating out there in his winter coat
House fills with noisy nightly ghosts
Filling empty beds left from the grown kids
Creaks I suppose from the settling attic on down
To the hips and knees of our house
Tail of that fool
The perpetually hopeful golden retriever
Bats the Christmas tree
With his wagging baton of joy from behind
Blue and red ornaments hold on for dear life
Ding and ring in the ruffle of evergreen and fanned fur
Like there’s a toddler of wind
Crawling down the hallways from the furnace and vents
Bells looped along the stairway railings
Jingle to life as a lurched Santa sleigh
From the paws of cats that frustratingly mitten
The harnessed snack
They think
Are silver mice and copper sparrows
A very bright young lady
Last day of work before Christmas Eve
Laughs in the Board room as she tells me
The old boss
“My Dad still writes From Santa on a few of my presents.”
I quietly understand and perhaps she does too
Something finally we could share across generations
Santa Claus is more for parents than kids.
Weepers with hoods —
tear-stained, faceless.
Dirge monks with shields.
Knight of the golden fleece
on a slab in requiem.
The silent mouth of Cicero.
Fell in love with this funereal piece
— Tomb of Philippe Pot
with life-sized pleurants.
His hands steepled in prayer,
a lion in repose at his feet —
Grand Seneschal of Burgundy
9/28/2020
Tomb of Philippe Pot
Louvre Museum
Maybe I should have
bought Fort Garry Personnel
for a dollar instead of letting it
die. But I thought of next month's
office rent.
I remember having a desk to
sit behind with a phone
to make appointments,
life sized, watching the
business world tense around me.
It would have been worth a dollar
to play in a lonely historic place,
continuing for another month
to cherish small hopes, not
quite well-dressed and smiling.
A bottle of sugar
in a glass of wine,
pressing a tender,
frightened heart
into the body of a soldier.
Everything seems more life-sized than normal today,
and the air is perfumed with justice.
Comradery defines America, as tears of relief
roll down our cheeks.
The sky is bluer, the grass is greener and people
are smiling on the streets.
We fought, we journeyed , we won.
(by Kristen Bruni for Brian Strands As It Is Contest)
I walk into a room, invent myself again.
The old me, cast aside, wonders what was his sin.
He'll stand there for a moment, like the kid who wasn't picked.
A closely concealed quiver, on the newly freed me's lip.
But soon he'll find the others, who didn't make the grade.
All perfect life sized replicas of the changes that I've made.
They'll tell him of their plan to take my body back.
They try to get ahead of me so they can lay their trap.
They hide as I approach, as one they hold their breath.
But I reinvent myself again, and a copy's all they get.